


Lost Touch

by haganenoheichou



Category: Gentleman Jack (TV)
Genre: F/F, PTSD, Past Sexual Abuse, Pillow Talk, Psychological Trauma, Sexual Content, Sexual Dysfunction, past trauma, sapphic sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-09
Updated: 2019-07-09
Packaged: 2020-06-25 12:34:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,603
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19745878
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/haganenoheichou/pseuds/haganenoheichou
Summary: Ann is confronted with the ways in which her trauma by the hands of Mister Ainsworth affects her marriage. Anne is nothing but understanding.





	Lost Touch

**Author's Note:**

> So, I am obsessed with Gentleman Jack after watching it recently with my love. And, well, this comes from a very personal place. Also, this is the very first time I have ever written femslash. So... enjoy!

Slow, gentle movements. Soft sighs. Moans as quiet as the fall of a feather. There needn't be any more of it; no more hiding – and yet, she was so accustomed to it, to the secrecy of it all, that she inevitably grew quieter as her pleasure built, her muscles tense, one by one. She climbed toward pleasure, her hands knotted in the sheets, her lips bitten to shreds, and yet every time she seemed almost to push herself over the peak, it was as if her body refused to take the final step. A whine of absolute frustration made its way out of her throat, and she pulled her wife closer, almost aggressively, as if she could force herself to climb again. 

The gentle hands that guided her to her release halted, and she was, for a moment, confused, as she drew herself up onto her elbows and looked into the face of the woman who had captured her heart so. 

“What is the matter, my love?” 

Ann couldn’t help but bite her lip – a gesture her wife considered now _adorable_ , in her own words, the feeling of her teeth catching on the soft flesh a welcome distraction from the overwhelming cascade of emotion that threatened to overcome her whole. 

“N-nothing,” she whispered, reaching out to place a hand on Anne’s face. She thumbed her cheekbone, strong and high as the woman herself, and allowed herself one sweeping glance of her wife’s face, flush with excitement. “I… I find it hard to relax myself at times. Pay it no mind.” 

Anne’s eyebrow went up in her usual sardonic way, but there was concern there to, written in the soft curve of her mouth. 

“I cannot ignore you, darling, not even the smallest expressions of yours. I simply cannot bring myself to carry on unless I know what is on your mind,” she said smoothly, and Ann’s heart caught in her chest somewhere in half-beat. Curse this woman for being so… capable! 

“It is nothing,” Ann repeated, her voice wavering as she glanced sideways – a surefire way to make Anne pursue her line of thinking. She could not help herself – if she were to play a bluffing game with her wife, she would lose woefully; such was the nature of their relationship. Although the reverse was true as well – the more time they spent together, the more she could confidently say that she was the woman who knew Anne Lister the most, the inside of her soul laid bare and open for her wife to read. 

Nevertheless, she felt utterly exposed. 

"I simply have a hard time letting my mind drift," she assured Anne, her voice purposefully soft. "It is a… hazard of my affliction, nerves, and all. Please, Anne, continue, I–," 

“Darling.” 

Her wife halted her busy explanations by shifting upward on their bed so that the two of them were pressed chest to chest. 

“I shan’t continue unless you are present,” she said quietly, her curious eyes raking over Ann’s face. “Tell me, what is it? Are you not in the mood?” 

Ann shook her head so vigorously that some of her curls, tight from the morning, came undone. 

"I am!" She protested, grabbing Anne's hand and pulling it downward to demonstrate. "Feel me; I am _very_ much in the mood, my love.” 

“Then what bothers you?” Anne’s hand resisted the rough treatment, settling instead on her wife’s waist. “What is it that keeps your mind distracted?” 

A heavy sigh escaped Ann’s chest before she could help herself. She knew, knew in her mind that it was silly to worry about such things; that she had plenty of time to make her peace with the thing that had plagued her so for years. And yet, she felt powerless in the face of it, as if her very own body stood to betray her. As if the memory of what had happened had engraved itself into her muscles, into her nerves, into her very mind. 

"I…" She trailed off, unsure, under her wife's studious gaze. It seemed more comfortable, at that moment, not to look her in the eye, so she shifted in a way that would give her the full view of the canopy above the bed instead. 

“I sometimes… find myself unable to escape the memories of what had happened between me and… Mister Ainsworth,” she admitted, feeling the hot sting of shame compress her chest as the tightest corset in the world. 

Without even looking at her, she could feel Anne's demeanor change. Her body seemed to stiffen next to Ann's, and her hand reached out to forcefully grab onto her wife's chin, making their eyes meet.

“That… that _filth_ is not worthy of a second thought,” she said, her words dripping with venom, and despite the mortification she felt, Ann felt a slight thrill make its way down her spine and into her knickers. She glanced down, half embarrassed by her affliction and half by her arousal. 

“I know that,” she said quietly. “And nevertheless, when we are… intimate, it is as if my body remembers. As if my body keeps the score of what had happened, and I…” 

It was so difficult to explain, so hard to let the words escape her. She twisted her fingers in her naked lap, suddenly aware of how exposed she was. 

“It is not as if I fantasize about it, believe you me!” She said hurriedly, her heart pumping in her chest at breakneck speed. “The thoughts come unbidden, and even if they don’t, I can _feel_ my body refuse to partake in the pleasure you offer.” 

She closed her eyes, too tired to fight against the tears that burned in them. She allowed them to fall. Anne did not delay in pressing the sides of her fingers against her cheeks to wipe them, as if they were too precious to fall. 

She felt so, so loved. So understood. 

And yet, the shame of it all, the feeling of being somehow defunct, of being unable to appreciate the undoubted pleasure her wife was bestowing upon her night after night; it all ate away at her, leaving her cold and shaking. 

“My love.” 

She shook her head, unable to bring herself to glance at Anne. 

“Darling, please.” Anne’s voice became exasperated. She swallowed thickly and shook her head again. 

“Miss Walker!” 

The shock of that brought her up short as she looked at her wife, unable to resist the call of her old name. In her mind, she had become the _second_ Ann Lister; and yet, the public, unknowing of their liaison, still called her by it. To hear her wife use it, however, was shocking. 

Anne’s face split into a tender, tentative smile. It had worked. 

“Listen to me, please,” she said quietly. She reached out to bring Ann’s body flush against hers, their bosoms touching as she twined their legs together. 

"I cannot begin to understand what he had done to you," she whispered quietly into Ann's ear. A thickness made its way up to the end of Ann's throat, and she tried to swallow against it, coming up in tears instead. 

“I cannot begin to realize what horrors plague you,” Anne continued, her fingers slipping between those of her wife. “And yet I… I find myself wanting to hear you speak of it. I… Perhaps I am a tad presumptuous in thinking that by telling me of them, you would alleviate yourself. Perhaps I simply am a fool who loves you too much, who… wants to _protect_ you from all the bad of this world.” 

“You c-can’t,” Ann hiccuped, and the lump in her throat seemed to give way, like a dam that could not withstand the onslaught of an ocean wave. Without missing a single beat, she burst into tears, hot, salty tears, that left her vocal and heaving against her wife’s neck. The things she had kept inside, the memories – both physical and autobiographical – came pouring out in the form of sadness, of extreme sorrow for her lost youth, and for the pleasure she could not come to let herself feel. 

She cried bitterly until there were no more tears left. She clung to the only thing that felt solid at that very moment – the feeling of Anne’s steady hands twined with her, the weight of her body that soothed instead of feeling repugnant, and she desperately invested all of her sanity into the feeling. 

When she could no longer breathe with her sorrow, she felt Anne shift against her, so that her lips caressed the shell of her ear. 

“One day,” she whispered, “you may be ready to tell me. But I shan’t push.” 

Ann nodded spasmodically, unable to give a verbal answer. 

“All I ask is that you talk to someone of it,” Anne continued quietly. Ann twitched in alarm, but her wife held her fast against her chest. “Listen. How’s about we take a trip to York, and perhaps drop in on the good Doctor Belcombe? It had been a while since we’d paid him a visit.” 

It took a long moment to make Ann realize what had been said. Then, slowly, she found her body begin to unwind. 

“Y-you don’t think I am… _wrong_ for being unable to receive pleasure?” She asked, pulling back to look at Anne’s face for any sign of falsity. 

Her wife’s usually severe face was a picture of softness as she smiled, almost bitterly. 

“Oh, darling,” she whispered. “There are many ways of receiving pleasure,” she said quietly. “As such, there are more ways than one of being happy.” 

**Author's Note:**

> "There are more ways than one of being happy... I am living proof of this." - Anne Lister


End file.
